Dragonfury 01 - Fury of Fire

Work boots would’ve been better, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Barefoot, it would have to be.
    Holding her footwear in one hand, she stepped carefully, tiptoeing through the bramble, ignoring the small scrapes against her skin. With one last hop, she landed on the trail and peeked around the side of the house.
    Bingo. An outbuilding dead ahead.
    The smell of rain blew in as thunder rumbled and the wind picked up, tugging at her clothes. Myst ignored the warning and, slipping her footwear back on, trotted down the path toward the building. Please, let it be the garage. She needed to know where it was…and the kind of vehicles housed inside.
    As she came even with the front, lightning forked overhead. The hair on her nape lifted, sensation tingling down her spine, gravel crunching beneath her feet. She moved right, running across the driveway and…
    Thank God. Big, industrial-sized doors.
    Set in a row, seven garage doors stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting patiently to be opened and, as one second ticked into the next, Myst tasted freedom. It was a moment away: the simple press of a button, a quick search for the keys. And standing in the growing darkness, she imagined the steering wheel in her hands and the roar of the engine as she drove away from Bastian’s home. A heavy weight settled on her chest, the pressure vise-like and painful.
    Moisture pricked the corners of her eyes. How could this have happened? She’d finally found the right man, the perfect one for her and…Goddamn it. Fate left her with a terrible choice. Give him up and reclaim her life. Or stay and lose everything.
    Myst hung her head. Guess he wasn’t so perfect, after all.
    The soft scrape of footfalls sounded behind her.
    With a sigh, Myst raised her head to stare up at the storm-swept sky and watched the angry clouds tumble. She should’ve paid better attention. The tingle she’d felt earlier wasn’t storm-driven. It was about Bastian, and the fact she could track him when he was near.
    She glanced over her shoulder. Serious green eyes met hers, unraveling her one thread at a time.
    “What are you doing out here, Myst?” His tone was soft, barely rising above the wind.
    “Exploring.”
    “Are you done?”
    When she nodded, he held out his hand, palm up, inviting her to come to him. She stayed still a moment, holding his gaze—hesitating—then gave in. She wanted him too much. But as she slid her hand into his much larger one, she called herself a fool. Her love affair with Bastian wouldn’t end well and still, like a lamb to the slaughter, she went to him without a fight.

     
    Standing on the threshold between the French doors, Bastian scanned the dining room. The thing was lit up, candlelight bouncing off polished silver and hand-cut crystal. A stark contrast from the beer-drinking, trash-talking poker game the table saw every Saturday afternoon. Usually, the place smelled like a locker room and the cheezies Wick liked to munch on while he kicked their asses at five-card stud.
    Daimler had outdone himself. Yet again. But then, the Numbai was all about pleasing those he served. Well that, and food.
    The male never missed a beat in the kitchen. Was always experimenting, serving new dishes, everything gourmet-style. Which was a good thing. Daimler kept the males of the lair satisfied in the eats department while making sure each got the nutrition he needed to stay in prime fighting shape. Although, Bastian could do without the curlicue garnishes. A steak was a steak. All that other crap was just window dressing.
    Tonight, though, Bastian appreciated Daimler’s flare for high drama. The male might drive him crazy with marzipan flowers on cupcakes, but he knew how to throw together an intimate evening for two.
    His fingers still laced with Myst’s, he gave her a gentle squeeze. “Hungry?”
    “I could eat.” Her breath caught as she got a load of the table. “Wow.”
    Untangling her hand from his, she stepped around him. While he mourned the loss of her heat, her gaze skimmed over the candelabras, pale linens, and the two place settings arranged at one end of the long table. Drifting to a stop, she cupped the back of an upholstered chair. Silence stretched, drawing him tight before she turned to look at him.
    Wariness in her gaze, she asked, “Wine me, dine me?”
    “I thought we could share a meal.”
    “You want a news flash?”
    “Sure,” he murmured, watching her closely, trying to gauge her mood. Pensive. Too